


unasked, unanswered

by thedevilchicken



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Comes Back Wrong, Dark, F/M, Implied Violence, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Monsters, Resurrection, Sexual Content, Silent Hill 3, Video Game Mechanics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23149675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: The angel doesn't scare her.
Relationships: Heather Mason/Valtiel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52
Collections: Teratophilia Trade 2020





	unasked, unanswered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cricket_aria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cricket_aria/gifts).



> For [Teratophilia Trade 2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/teratophiliatrade2020/profile)!
> 
> This was written for the tags:  
> \- "Who would be into that?" "...oh no - I'm into that."  
> \- Came Back Wrong (and Horny)  
> \- Extremely Rough Sex  
> \- First Time Having Sex With A Nonhuman  
> \- Intelligent but Nonverbal Monsters  
> \- Monster is Dangerous to Everyone But Their Favorite Human  
> \- sex shouldn't be physically possible but we're not cowards  
> \- Falsely Gentle Touches

The angel doesn't scare her. 

She's seen him almost everywhere she's been for days, in the Otherworld where nothing's right. She wonders if he can even be anywhere else but there and what that would be like if he could, if anyone would see him but her, if they'd see him like she sees him if they did. Vincent said the monsters aren't monsters, not the way she sees them - he said it without saying it but that was what he meant, so maybe Valtiel's not like that, either. She has no way to know.

The angel doesn't scare her because she knows he's not there to take her. In a way, she guesses maybe he's there to help. 

She doesn't want to be in Silent Hill, even if she guesses maybe she belongs there. She doesn't want to belong there, though. She wants to belong literally anywhere else than empty amusement parks and coal mines that are probably still burning underground, and a hospital that gives her the creeps even when she doesn't need a shotgun to get out of it alive. 

_Alive_. Even in her head, the word doesn't sound right. It rings false. And she knows why; she just doesn't want to admit it. 

When she woke this time, he was dragging her. She could feel his hands around her ankles over the fabric of her boots, she could feel the friction of her coat against the floor, catching on it, pulling up, and she clawed at the ground, struggled even though she knew he wouldn't try to hurt her - she knew it was the opposite. So he stopped. His head twitched that way that reminded her more than anything else that they didn't even share a species. If she'd had to guess, she'd've guessed that he was curious. If she'd had to guess, she'd've guessed she hadn't been meant to wake up just yet. 

She sat up. She frowned at him. 

"Could you maybe stay still for a second?" she asked. "Jeez, you're making me nauseous." 

Abruptly, he froze. He _froze_ , still as a statue, not even a breath, and that was almost as creepy as the twitching was. She sighed. And she could tell that he was looking at her, even if she couldn't see his eyes, even if she couldn't even tell if he had them. She didn't know what he was, really, what parts he had that might match hers, or match any human being's, and when she reached out toward his mask he flinched away then froze again, just out of reach. 

"Okay, okay, I'll leave the mask," she said, holding her hands up like she'd been caught sticking up a bank at gunpoint, not just trying to see his face, and she pulled herself up onto her knees. He was still there in front of her, crouching, and okay so she couldn't tell if he had eyes, but she knew that he was watching her. She _felt_ it, the way she could feel people's eyes on her sometimes, boys' eyes, mens' eyes, looking at her. Looking. Thinking. Turning ideas over in their heads. 

"So that's what you do with me, uh, _between_?" she said, and made a face. 

He tilted his head, so quickly it was like reality just flipped a page. She winced. 

"Do you do that on purpose to creep me out or is that just the way you are?" she asked. 

When he tilted his head the other way, this time he did it slower. Almost too slow, she thought. Eerie. The change was like he'd flipped a switch, or turned a valve. But he was still pretty much the only thing in Silent Hill that didn't want her dead, she guessed, so she didn't have too much room to complain. 

"Close enough," she said, then she crawled a little closer, and he lifted his gloved hands. Maybe the gloves were closer to mittens, with the first three fingers stuck together like that. Glittens. Rubbery, like it was his turn to do the dishes. Maybe his hands were like that underneath, who knew. 

"I won't touch the mask, I swear," she told him, and slowly, very slowly, he put his hands back down. He was crouching, still in his weird apron and his leathery mask and his big black boots, and he settled his gloved hands against his knees. She reached out. She touched his arms, just above his wrists, just above where his gloves ended. And he felt warm, like a person, but his skin wasn't like a person. His skin was like touching warm leather over stone, like walking on a snooty hotel's heated bathroom floor. She squeezed and only the top layer budged, but when she moved her hands she could see the white parts where her fingertips had been. White like maybe there was blood inside him after all, not just on his apron. Maybe that was hers. Maybe all of it was hers. 

She should've stopped, she knew that, but she didn't stop. She ran her hands over his shoulders, over the apron's fabric and down to the symbols on his arms. She traced them with her fingertips and when he started to twitch again, like he had before, she paused and raised her eyebrows and he stopped still. She stood. She gestured to him, a flap of her hands, and he stood, too, no more crouching, no more awkward angles, except there was still no way she could've mistaken him for human. And she stepped around behind him, ran her fingers down the ties cinched in like a corset down his back, and on impulse she started to pull them open. 

When she pulled the apron down to his waist, he arched his back and he clenched his fists down by his sides - his muscles shifted underneath his skin but it was weird, like membrane, like it wasn't quite attached to him at all. When she moved around him, trailing her fingers over his too-hot skin, she realized she didn't know if his chest was so smooth because his nipples were removed or if he'd just never had them in the first place. Then she took two big handfuls of the leather - what kind of leather it was she really didn't want to know, so she didn't ask - and she yanked it down. He let her. And when it was down at the tops of his boots, and he was bare from his neck to his shins, she stood back and she looked at him. 

Weird mask: check. No nipples: check. Signs on his arms like something from a trashy horror flick: check. Navel? Nope. Hair: not a bit. He shuffled down the apron the rest of the way, stepped out of it and stood there naked except his boots and gloves. And maybe he really wasn't human because his butt had no crack, what the fuck, and his dick was like a steel rod wrapped in skin. She squinted at it. He tilted his head. _Nothing_ about him was right. But nothing about her was right, either, she guessed. 

"Does that work?" she asked, and when he spread his arms and tilted his head back the other way again, she pointed down between his legs. People had always told her it was rude to point, but he didn't seem to mind it. He just wrapped one gloved hand around the thick length dangling between his twisted thighs and for a second she thought maybe he'd do that twitching thing and it'd all be over in a flash. He didn't. He touched himself slowly, hips canted at a painful-looking angle, and it started rising, stiffly, jerking, like a ratchet, click-click-click. 

It should've turned her stomach. At the very least, it should've creeped her the fuck out. It didn't. It _really_ didn't. And she stepped in close, her cheeks all flushed, her chest all tight, and she put her fingers on him. She shouldn't've wanted it, but she guessed there were a lot of things she shouldn't've done; for starters, she shouldn't've woken up the way that she'd just done, being dragged along the floor. She shouldn't've lived, shouldn't've died, shouldn't've touched him, ever, _ever_ , not like this because not like anything. And he knew, because of course he knew. And he knew just how to resolve it. 

He pushed her up against the wall. He did it slowly, gently, like he didn't want to scare her, but she wasn't scared. 

His gloved fingers slipped down underneath her skirt and eased her underwear aside, and he stroked her there between her thighs. Her breath hitched. He shifted. He pushed himself inside her, one thrust, slow and deep, as she hopped up and wrapped her legs around his waist. But when he moved in her, so slow, _so slow_ , she understood. He wasn't slow at all. He wasn't gentle. He only seemed that way to her. 

He had her, till her head spun, till her hips ached, till her thighs were wet and her throat was sore. He wrapped one gloved hand around her throat and nuzzled at her cheek; the mask felt warm, like his skin did, like the air did, like her face did, like her insides did as she pulled tight around him. She gasped. She came, like an implosion, falling in and in and in. Then he lay her back down on the floor, so carefully, so carefully, but not carefully at all.

She wakes. Again. _Again_. He's there. 

The angel doesn't scare her. He's weird, but so is she, like so is everything in Silent Hill. 

He doesn't scare her. He's watching over her. 

What scares her is the question she won't ask: how many times has he brought her back?


End file.
